The P.I.

The phone rang again, and the tingling at the back of his neck once more claimed his attention. He stifled the urge to reach for the receiver as he listened to his voice inviting the caller to leave a message. It was probably Nik calling to gloat, too.

“Kit?”

The female voice was breathless. And frightened, Kit thought as he tried to place it.

“This is Sadie Oliver. You may not remember me. I’m Roman’s—” A burst of static cut the last word off.

Though he’d only met her once, Kit remembered Sadie, all right. His friend Roman Oliver had two sisters. The younger one, Juliana, was about to start college. A year ago Sadie had graduated from Harvard Law School and come back home to work in her family’s business. She was an attractive brunette, nearly as tall as Roman, and if she hadn’t been his best friend’s sister, he might have called her for a date. But his bond with Roman dated back to their freshman year in college when they’d shared a room.

He’d even dedicated his novel to him. Who better, since his friend had provided a wealth of information on the inner workings of organized-crime families. Not that the Oliver family had any connection to crime anymore. Their business holdings in real estate up and down the California coast had been legitimate ever since Roman’s great-grandfather had moved to San Francisco and built his first hotel forty years ago.

But it had been the Oliver family’s long-established feud with the Carlucci family, dating back to a time in Chicago when both families had been involved in shadier business practices, that had sparked the idea for Kit’s first novel. The Montagues and the Capulets had nothing on the Olivers and the Carluccis. And although both San Francisco families were legitimate now, they were still bitter rivals when it came to business.

There was another burst of static. “…To talk to you. My cell is 546-2122.”

Even as he filed the number away in his mind, Kit rose and moved toward the phone. But the line had already gone dead when he picked it up. He stared thoughtfully at the receiver for a minute. Why would Sadie Oliver need to talk to him?

He was punching in her number when another voice grabbed his attention.

“Excuse me.”

The hoarse sound had him whirling, and as he did, he stubbed his bare toe on the leg of a chair. Swearing softly, he grabbed his throbbing foot and stumbled against his desk. The phone and the answering machine crashed to the floor.

In the midst of the chaos, all Kit could do was stare. Straddling the threshold between his office and his secretary’s was a beautiful waif who could have graced the pages of any P.I. novel, including his own.

Here she is. That was the only clear thought he had as the tingling at the back of his neck morphed into an electric current. The tingling he understood. He’d been expecting something all day and she was it. He also understood the tightening in his gut. He’d experienced it before—that instant sexual awareness of a woman. The sensation of the ground shifting under his feet? Now, that was tougher to explain. But, hey, this was San Francisco. It could be a tremor.

And then it finally registered. The suit she was wearing was stained with blood.

3

“I…MAYBE, I SHOULD…”

She was going to turn and run. Pure panic shot through him and brought Kit out of his daze. He didn’t trust himself to take a step yet, but he managed to speak. “Don’t go.”

She glanced down at a card she was clutching in one hand, then at Ari. “That’s a very big dog.”

“He won’t move unless he smells food on you.” In which case, Ari would definitely leap on her and she was such a bit of a thing that he figured the dog might just topple her over. Worrying about that brought the rest of his thoughts into focus. “You don’t have any on you, do you? Food, I mean?”

“No…but…” She glanced uncertainly down at the card again. “I think I might be in the wrong place. I’m looking for…”

“Me.” She was what he’d been waiting for all day. He was absolutely sure about that. And he was pretty sure the blood on her suit wasn’t hers since she’d evidently gotten here under her own steam. So the tiny blonde with the bottle-green eyes was a damsel in distress of the first order. Her heart-shaped face and that perfect mouth might have been carved on one of the cameos his aunt Cass kept in her jewel box.

She was poised for flight. And no wonder. His office looked as though it had just been attacked by the same tornado that had carried Dorothy off to Oz. There was a dog the size of a small bear cub lounging on the floor, and he…well, he just wasn’t presenting his best professional image.

“Why don’t you come in?”

She took one step and then paused again as if to gauge the response of the dog. In one quick glance Kit cataloged details, taking in the bruise that darkened the otherwise perfect skin near her left temple and the silky-looking hair that fell in tousled layers to just beneath a stubborn-looking chin. Last, but not least, he noted the first-rate legs and the designer open-toed shoes. Her other features remained hidden behind the dress bag and tote she was holding on to for dear life.

Kit had an overpowering urge to go to her, to press his hand to the small of her back and guide her carefully to one of his two client chairs, but he sensed that the slightest move on his or Ari’s part would make her bolt.

“How can I help you?” he asked in a calm voice as he settled his hip firmly on the edge of his desk.

“I’m not sure you can.” Her voice was stronger now. While he’d been studying her, she’d glanced warily around the room, her gaze settling on Ari twice. She met his eyes, then frowned down at the card in her hand. “I’m looking for Mr. Kristophe Angelis.”

“You’ve found him.” Kit sent her what he hoped was his most charming smile. Of the three Angelis brothers, he’d inherited the dimples. Most of the time he could have done without them, but every so often, especially when women were involved, they served him well. “I go by Kit. Kit Angelis.”

She transferred her frown from the card to him, and this time when he looked into those green eyes, he felt a little punch right in his solar plexus.

“Have we ever met before?” she asked.

“No.” Kit was absolutely certain of that—in spite of the fact that what he was feeling bordered on recognition.

“It says on this card that you’re a private investigator.” Her tone held a note of accusation—as if the card were lying.

“I am,” he explained, “during the days. On my free nights, I write crime fiction.” As he gestured around the room, a breeze sent more papers scattering to the floor. “You’ve caught me in my writing mode.”

“I’m interrupting, then.” She didn’t appear to be at all reassured by his explanation. If their positions had been reversed, Kit wasn’t sure he would have been, either.

“Not at all.” It wasn’t a lie, really. She hadn’t interrupted. He hadn’t even gotten one word down. Something she saw on his face must have reassured her—perhaps the dimples had finally kicked in—because she took a few steps forward. Good, he thought as he willed her to take a few more. He sat perfectly still while she did. Experience had taught him that luring a woman wasn’t a lot different than reeling in a fish. Patience and persistence usually paid off.

She was close enough now that he could reach out and touch her. Kit had to suppress a powerful urge to do just that. He wanted very much to trace his finger along her jawline, to find out if that porcelain-delicate skin was as cool as it looked. He thought not, but a good investigator always tested his theories.

“You do investigate crimes, then?”

“Hmm?” Kit reined his thoughts in from the little detour they’d taken.

“You investigate crimes, right?” She was studying his face very closely.

He finessed his wallet out of his pocket, flipped it open and handed it to her. “I’ve been licensed by the state of California to do just that. I’m even allowed to charge for my services.”

She glanced down at the wallet, then back at him. “Could you find out if I’ve committed a crime?”

He noted that her knuckles had turned white on the strap of the tote. He wanted very much to take that hand in his, but he kept himself very still.

“Probably.”

“How?” she asked.

“My brother Nik is a cop. If a crime has been committed and the police are involved, he would know. I also have friends at the newspaper and TV stations. What kind of a crime are we talking about?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe a robbery. Maybe worse. That’s what I need you to find out.”

He said nothing, but he noted the way her grip tightened on the dress bag and the tote.

She held out his wallet to him, and when he took it, his fingers brushed accidentally against hers. Well, perhaps not accidentally.

The effect of that casual touch shocked both of them. She snatched her hand back as if it had been burned. And he knew exactly how she felt. The brief contact had sent a little current of electricity zinging along his nerve endings, and the knowledge that she’d been affected, too, had desire twisting his stomach into a hot, hard knot.

“I—” She faltered as if she’d lost her train of thought. He’d better damn well gather his own or he was going to lose her. He could read it in her eyes. She was still thinking of bolting.